


'07

by jouissant



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Character Study, In Vino Veritas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 12:43:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2270172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jouissant/pseuds/jouissant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe it’s the champagne, but also Chris has the feeling that Zach’s in the middle of a reading, some script that exists only in his own head. He guesses he’s supposed to say something about the Santa Anas, or about fireflies, or maybe his childhood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'07

**Author's Note:**

> What happens when I think about _White Jazz_ late at night. This was going to be part of another story but I realized it was more of its own little thing.

He’s sitting on the couch in the living room when he hears it, that stupid knock. He’d been staring at his phone, and he tosses it behind him onto the cushions, sees it bounce off the couch and onto the tile. It hits with a crack and he winces, but the knocking’s not stopping, an insistent _rat-tat-tat_. Chris’s palms are sweaty on the doorknob. 

Zach’s practically bouncing up and down on the stoop, which is exactly what Chris was afraid of. 

“Captain,” he says, raising an eyebrow. He holds up a bottle of champagne. An open bottle of champagne. “I brought libations,” he says. “I hope you’ll forgive me for starting without you, but I was _understandably_ a little excited.” 

“Understandably,” Chris repeats. “Did you drive here with that?” 

“Of course not,” Zach snorts. “I walked here. It’s a beautiful night for it.” There’s a slight drawl to his voice. Maybe it’s the champagne, but also Chris has the feeling that Zach’s in the middle of a reading, some script that exists only in his own head. He guesses he’s supposed to say something about the Santa Anas, or about fireflies, or maybe his childhood. 

“Gimme that,” Chris says instead, taking the bottle and swigging. “At least you kept it marginally cold,” he says, which come to think of it probably fits the overall tone of Zach’s imaginary play just fine. 

“Nooo,” Zach whines. “You need to get glasses so we can cheers.” 

Chris takes another sip from the bottle, screws up his nose. He walks back toward the kitchen to the cabinet and takes out two glasses, fills one and hands it to Zach. “About that—“ 

“What the fuck,” Zach says. “You’re taking it, right? You’ve gotta take it, Chris.” 

“It’s not that simple, man. I told you, I’m on the hook for this Ellroy adaptation—“ 

“So get out of it.” 

“Dude, whatever happened to your iron-clad sense of professionalism? You’re like the most by- the-book guy I know when it comes to this stuff.” 

Zach waves a hand dismissively; it’s the hand with the champagne glass in it, and booze hits the kitchen counter with a wet splat. “Yeah, I am, but this is different. This is…this is it for us, you know that, right? I am telling it to you straight when I say that if you turn this down you’re making the biggest fucking mistake of your life.” 

The thing is, Chris has already talked to Carnahan about it, and he’s free to say yes to Kirk if he wants to. That makes it worse somehow. Chris is on a precipice, and he knows it. Zach’s tepid champagne is looking better and better. 

Zach plants his hand on Chris’s right shoulder and squeezes. “C’mon,” he says. “Come sit down and drink some champagne with me.” 

“So you can convince me to take the part?” 

“I mean, if that happens, it’ll be a side benefit of having gotten drunk with you. Come on. Couch, now.” 

Chris would’ve been delusional to expect Zach to drop it just because they’ve changed venues. If anything, the comfort of the couch seems to ground Zach’s boozy swagger enough to allow him to put together several disturbingly reasonable arguments and pro-and-con lists. 

“With all due respect, Christopher, I have to say I think you’re kidding yourself with this whole character actor thing,” he says later, pushing the remains of takeout pad thai around his bowl with a plastic fork. 

Chris sighs and drags a hand down his face. He feels like squirming, Zach’s words probing far too close to the nexus of embarrassment that is Chris’s assessment of his own work, his own strengths and weaknesses, his own dubious talent. “Tell me more, Zach. Or actually, don’t. I can’t believe I ever talked about this with you in the first place—“ 

“No, no, I think it’s good,” Zach says. “Because look, if I didn’t know I wouldn’t be able to convince you that you’re wrong.” Chris turns to boggle at Zach, who is apparently drunker and blunter than he thought. He seems to realize he’s gone a shade too far, because he blanches slightly, swallowing his mouthful of noodles too fast and descending into a coughing fit as his eyes water from the spice. 

“I’m—I”m sorry,” he splutters. “That came out wrong. No, listen, it did.” Zach rests a hand on Chris’s knee, as if his need for emphasis is so great that only physical contact will do. Chris can’t stop looking at it, Zach’s palm warm even through the thick, dry denim. “Chris, I…I just think you need to ask yourself if you want this other movie because it’s what you actually _want_ , or if you want it because you’re scared.” 

Chris sits up, knocking off Zach’s hand in the process. “Okay, first of all, I never said anything about what I want or don’t want. And second of all…what the fuck, _scared_? Why would I be scared of this?” Even as he says the words, he knows how tissue-flimsy they sound. Zach’s half smirking at him, like he can see it too. Stupid Zach and his stupid pop psychology. 

“Why _wouldn’t_ you be?” Zach says. “It’s scary. It’s fucking terrifying! You think I haven’t had my fair share of moments wondering why I didn’t keep my big mouth shut about wanting Spock? I could still be cruising along in relative anonymity and Adrien Brody or whoever would be the one about to part with his eyebrows for the foreseeable future. It’d make…it would sure as hell make some areas of my life a lot simpler.” He frowns, and Chris thinks about the last time he saw Zach out at a bar, a solid foot between him and the guy Chris is pretty sure he’s been dating for at least a couple months.

“But then I think back to a couple years ago…dude, I don’t know if you know this, but when we met I was in a bad place. I was this close to packing it in and moving back east.” 

Chris nods, he knows. Zach’s alluded to it more than once, but also Chris remembers. He remembers the sour twist to Zach’s mouth, the way he moved like his joints were full of ground glass. And that awful beard. Which was actually a little bit hot, in retrospect, but that’s not the point. 

“So anyway, that Zach would, like, leap into the future and literally murder me if I turned this down.” 

Chris doesn’t have an equivalent to past Zach. Past Chris is…well, not entirely unlike current Chris, equal parts concerned with making it happen for himself and making art, aware of how mutually exclusive those two things sometimes are. Zach…Zach is ruthless in a way Chris isn’t, a way Chris feels sort of gross for not being able to be. 

“I wish I could be as sure as you are,” Chris says. “I don’t know, I just…you’re right, to even have this decision on the table is nuts. It’s…it’s a once in a lifetime thing, and maybe that’s why I just can’t—“ He takes a sip of beer; they’ve moved onto a six-pack, the champagne long gone now. He shakes his head. 

Zach slides closer to Chris on the couch. He lifts his hand, his fingers finding the side of Chris’s head and carding through the hair there. He taps at Chris’s temple and Chris’s eyes fall closed, like Zach’s tripping some kind of reflex. “Christopher,” Zach says, his voice low. “Get out of your own head for a second.” He takes a breath. “Come be my Kirk. You’re it; you felt it when we read together. I want to do this with you.” 

Chris lets out a shaky breath. He turns so that Zach’s fingers skate back along the side of his head; they play along the curve of his skull and settle at the nape of his neck. He opens his eyes. 

“Fuck it,” he says. “Okay.”


End file.
